


Swamp Thing

by BabysNotaProp (SuzetteB)



Series: Destiel Bingo [6]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - High School, Destiel Port Facebook Group Bingo Challenge, M/M, Parody, Serial Killer Castiel (Supernatural), Student Castiel (Supernatural), Student Dean Winchester
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-29
Updated: 2019-01-29
Packaged: 2019-10-18 15:59:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,830
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17583947
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SuzetteB/pseuds/BabysNotaProp
Summary: Unafraid of the mysterious student in charge of after-school painting class, Dean joins in late to find that Castiel lives up to the rumors. Afterward, he discovers that Castiel is hiding far more than his own hair behind that serene Bob Ross facade.





	Swamp Thing

**Author's Note:**

> Written for Destiel Fanfiction BINGO. Square filled: high school AU. Prompt: Parody.
> 
> I've never done a parody, and I tried doing something cool like Mean Girls or Grease, but my muse just wasn't having it. So you get Cas doing Bob Ross impressions, instead. Can't say I'm sorry.
> 
> The secondary prompt I used was a Facebook post I scrolled past that said: What if Bob Ross was a serial killer, and his paintings were where he hid the bodies? So, I kinda ran with it. 
> 
> This kinda gave me the creeps to write. It has potential to be longer than a one shot, so tell me what you think! Enjoy!!

“And over here, we’re going to have some happy little trees.”

 

Although Castiel Krushnic’s wig and demeanor gave off major Bob Ross vibes, his voice was much lower, much less emotionally charged. It was like the bass line in a song -- constant, reverberating -- like a coded message whose true meaning lie just beneath the surface. He was an odd one.

 

Leading the high school painting club came with its perks. Raiding the drama club’s prop room, for example. His real hair was black and unruly, and he hardly ever talked while not wearing the wig, so no one actually knew if that was his real voice or not. At this point, most of the club’s painters were afraid to ask.

 

Not Dean Winchester. New to the painting club but not to the school, he burst through the door in the middle of the hour with several sheets of canvas paper and brushes that clanked against the floor as they fell. He mumbled an apology to the floor, swiping up his brushes and claiming an empty easel.

 

Castiel bristled at the intrusive sounds. Concentration broken, he blinked at Dean wildly, a disturbingly unreadable expression setting the rest of the group on-edge. They glanced back at the latecomer, wetted brushes poised in their hands, waiting for him to get situated so they could get on with the project.

 

It was a swampy landscape with an eerie layer of fog along the bank. Its colors were all muted greens and brows, with slate blues making up the murky water. Instead of a cheery sunset, the sky was a cloudy spread of whites and grays. It was truly beautiful, and vaguely ominous, given the tone in which Castiel described his strokes. He kept staring at a single point in the painting, like he was speaking to it. Like it held secrets.

 

_Alright, so the guy likes to imitate Bob Ross,_ Dean thought to himself as he arranged his supplies. _Not even the third weirdest thing I’ve seen today. People are so dramatic._

 

At some point, Dean had started humming, but stopped abruptly when he glanced up meet Castiel’s piercing blue eyes glaring right into his very soul. Offering a pacifying smile, Dean nodded with a brush between his fingers and glanced at his blank paper. He had his work cut out for him if he wanted to catch up.

 

“Would you like to enlighten us on what you were doing to make you so late for your first painting lesson?” Cas chided.

 

“Uh, Rhonda Hurley,” Dean retorted. “If you must know.”

 

Castiel’s blank stare did not falter, although the rest of the students hid their snickering behind their easels. He cleared his throat and resumed the lesson, wisping his fan brush along the cloudscape for added depth. The rest of the room followed suit, falling into uncomfortable silence between his peculiar Bob Ross impressions.

 

Although he was starting to see why people talked, Dean wasn’t about to let a rocky first impression spoil things. After their hour-long club meeting was over, he lingered in the classroom and approached Castiel while everyone else poured out. Still facing his completed painting, the club leader removed his wig and slung it over his easel.

 

“It’s a nice spot,” Dean commented, grabbing Castiel’s attention. Now directly in front of the painting, he was able to get a good look at the intricate details that made the it spectacular.

 

“Yes,” Castiel concurred. Although he acknowledged Dean’s presence, he looked back at his work, eyes glossing over with something evocative and far-away. “It certainly is.”

 

“You go there… often?”

 

“Only once.”

 

“Hmm,” Dean hummed, eyes scanning the back wall. It was lined with dozens of paintings by the same artist, all a testament of true genius. He must be cranking out one per week at least, to have so many on display. Each scene was remote, but unique; a covered bridge, a park trail in autumn, behind a woodshed, and many others. They were all so specific… so mysterious.

 

Cas looked proud of his work, of course, but there was something else there. Something he wasn’t telling anyone. The other club members thought it was odd; Dean thought it was kind of attractive.

 

“So, why Bob Ross?” Dean asked.

 

“He’s… peaceful. Soothing. Amid the chaos this world imputes, he stands as the immortalization of orderliness and purpose. Even when his wife died, he strove to project only certain energies into the world. No, no, no. The question is not ‘why’ Bob Ross. The question is, why not?”

 

Dean pouted thoughtfully. A little out there, but okay. Art students, right?

 

“What about you?” Castiel turned the question on him. “What’s your muse?”

 

“Oh, uh… I’m really into writing.” It was odd having someone ask about where he found inspiration. Dean wasn’t used to anyone caring about his hobbies, as language arts weren’t given the same praise bestowed to jocks and math wizards.

 

“You probably have some interesting things in your search history.”

 

The accurate analysis made him laugh. If only the guy knew. He looked up battlefront living conditions in Maryland during the Civil War, how long it takes a body to bleed out from a bullet wound to the center chest, and 19th century synonyms for homosexual. And that was in the span of an hour, yesterday.

 

He was probably on the country’s watch list for domestic terrorism. A broader look into his recently viewed pages would reveal “100 words to use instead of ‘ejaculate’,” “Ted Bundy’s best kept secrets”, and the Wiki page on over-the-counter sedatives. He knew the best way to rob a bank, hide drugs in a suitcase, and cause maximum pain to a torture victim.

 

And what did he do with it all? Write stories that got maybe like, four views on Amazon.

 

“You have no idea,” Dean said, eyes fixed on Castiel’s latest work. “My name is Dean, by the way.”

 

“Dean,” Castiel repeated, as if committing it to memory. “Pleasure to meet you, Dean.”

 

He wasn’t sure if it was the lower register in which he spoke, or the way Castiel said it, but his name on Castiel’s tongue sounded like he was inviting Dean into his bed. A list of adjectives raced through his mind to describe that voice. Alluring. Seductive. Sensuous. Suggestive. Ravishing.

 

“You too, Castiel,” he gulped. “Um, your name was on the club sheet. I’m not a creeper, I swear.”

 

Castiel met his gaze with his own blank stare. Dean searched and searched for something, anything, behind their unfazed deadness, but there was nothing. It was foreboding, like he was on the edge of discovering a long lost temple protected by a curse of the gods.

 

“So, Casti-- Cas… Can I call you Cas?” When he didn’t get a reply, Dean continued. “Isn’t this swamp… lake… thing… in the woods, behind the school?”

 

When Dean pointed at his newest work, Castiel recoiled, looking down and beginning to pack up his supplies. It was an odd reaction, but just about all of Cas’ were, so Dean took it with a grain of salt and changed the subject.

 

“I dig the Bob Ross hair, by the way. It’s very --”

 

“Don’t you have somewhere you need to be?”

 

Taken aback by the outburst, Dean stepped out of his space. “Alright asshat, I’m leaving. Sheesh.”

 

Dean didn’t say another word as he gathered his things. He didn’t speak to anyone on his way out the back door, and he didn’t even talk to himself on his way to the swamp. If Cas wasn’t going to answer his questions, he would figure out the answers himself. Being rude was uncalled for, especially when it pertained to one’s art.

 

After a quarter of a mile into the woods, he crossed a rickety old bridge and came face to face with the image of Castiel’s landscape. Everything was perfectly in place: the rotting log, water seeping into the slanted mud, and countless trees. Judging by this scene alone, Cas had the photographic memory that would rival a camera. It was impressive.

 

Walking towards the swamp, Dean squinted against the shadows darkening the woods around him as he spotted something peculiar sticking out of the water. It was tiny, pale, and triangular, and perfectly still against the stagnant water. He balanced himself on a sturdy rock, peeking over it, and sucked in a horrified gasp at what he saw.

 

“Holy shit… Oh my god. Oh, my… fucking…”

 

He thought he was going to be sick. His eyes became blurry, the reality of what they had seen too horrible to keep in focus. With weak legs, he stumbled away from the water, breathing heavy as he caught up with the fact of what was lying dead in the water.

 

A human body.

 

The small triangle he spotted? The nose. Dean wasn’t about to stick around long enough to identify whether the person was male or female, young or old; enough was clear: they were very, very dead. His head was spinning, but he was determined to get the hell out of this swamp. Which way was the bridge? Which way was the school? He couldn’t see it from here.

 

Crap, he was running the wrong way. Turning back, he glanced ahead to see that blessed bridge, suddenly looking like the best thing ever, and booked it. He didn’t look back and he didn’t slow down. All the way to the school’s back door he sprinted, breath heavy and the dead person’s face the only thing he saw when he blinked.

 

Once inside, he called 911 while letting his racing heart calm down. He gave the dispatcher his location, name, and oh, the fact that he found a mother-freaking body in the swamp behind the school. Dispatch assured him that someone was on their way, and he hung up with a sigh. He leaned on the doorframe for a minute, not sure if he should stand here and just wait for the cop to show or what.

 

Then, he froze. That painting in Castiel’s class…

 

Slowly walking down the hallway, Dean tried to listen for any indication that someone else was around. School and clubs had let out, so it was pretty damn quiet. It was unnerving.

 

Turning the corner that led to painting club, he held his breath and waited a beat before looking into the classroom. It sounded like Castiel was long gone. If he was in there, surely Dean would hear papers crinkling or brushes clanking. It was dead, like that face in the water. Gathering every last bit of his courage, Dean stepped into the room and raised his eyes.

 

His stomach sank. A sense of dread washed over him, and every hair on his body stood on end. He stared at the frizzy wig, still hanging on Castiel’s easel. After all, it was the only thing of Castiel’s left in the room.

 

Every single painting of every single scene, once lining the wall, was gone.


End file.
